The Graduate
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: NCIS: Season 12: Episode 14: Cadence. Cadet Major Mark Golan, Chairman of the Cadet Honor Council, makes a speech before the assembled cadets, staff and parents on graduation day for the RMA Class of 1987.


**Chapter 1**

* * *

There were 60 members of the Remington Military Academy's Class of 1987, graduating on May 18th. Among them twelve came from foreign countries; three from France, two from Germany, one from the Republic of Ireland, four from South Korea and two from Italy. Senior class boys came from the Carolinas, the Virginias, the Dakotas. From Maine, from Florida, from Wyoming and California. Some were Rhode Island natives, a few attending school close to home that they attended as day students.

In their ranks were boys going on to West Point, to VMI and The Citadel, to Annapolis and Colorado Springs. The majority were going on to civilian colleges- and to some of the best that could be found in the United States. Many boys had been accepted at multiple top-listed schools, having the privilege of choosing between at least two of their dream schools- if not more than two.

Cadet Major Mark Golan, Chairman of the Cadet Honor Council, was distinctly sharp-looking and handsome, and just as distinctly uncomfortable in his full dress uniform, his "Class A" with its gray jacket and white pants. Sitting all cool and collected in front of a faculty numbering some 200, 300 cadets, and God alone knew how many parents, relatives, and so on. His leather dress shoes were polished to a high mirror shine; Golan's brass belt buckle gleamed like a mirror every time sunlight hit it. His dress uniform hat badge, displaying the school crest, shone brilliant silver; nail polish remover and a lot of Brasso had removed the brass coating of the badge and turned it to its current color.

It was a tradition among Remington cadets, one that had never been written down. If you wanted to know why some cadets had their hat brass turned silver, you had to ask one of them. If you wanted to know how to do it yourself, one of those boys had to tell you- deem you worthy- and teach it to you himself. Military academies may not have quite recovered from the loss of prestige suffered during the Vietnam War years- but they still held their secrets, their devoted elite. The cadets who were nuts about going to a military boarding school, and would have traded it for nothing else, not even when putting up with the hardships and the bullshit. There was nothing like it in the world.

Golan could not believe how proud he was to be up on this stage, dress uniform pressed and ironed and polished until he looked like he'd walked off a school advertising poster (and Golan was on some). He could hardly believe he'd come to this school six years ago, a pissed-off and rebellious little middle school kid, shipped here because he hadn't heeded the warnings of his mother. She'd told him what would happen if he kept messing around, getting in trouble, and Golan of course hadn't listened. She'd followed up on her word, and Mark Golan's father had not bailed him out on this one when he'd come back from yet another tour at sea.

It was unbelievable- to think that angry little boy had grown to become this icon of RMA's ideals and code of honor! To think that a boy who'd gotten into a fight on his first day at Remington had gone on to chair the Honor Council! Mark Golan had hated this school at first. That was the reaction of practically every new cadet he'd ever seen, and not a few veterans as well. But as time passed, Golan accepted being at Remington. Then, with enough time, he began to feel safe within its walls- safe enough that he depended on them. Life was hard at a school like this, and even the most devoted boys had moments of doubt- days when the academy proved near-impossible to love. Yet now, as he was getting ready to leave for good, Mark Golan felt greatly conflicted.

Happy to be free at last, yes, able to move on and go do something with his life. Proud to have been accepted to the US Air Force Academy, where he'd be entering as a freshman in the fall. But RMA had been Mark's home for six long years. Years filled with love and hate, hope and fear, victory and, even for him, occasional defeat.

The days were too long, the nights too short. And no matter how high you rose in rank, no matter who you became, you always had the administration, the school staff, ranking above you. And they were never satisfied.

 **XX**

It had only gotten more complicated when Mark Golan had joined the Honor Corps- a secret society of the most devoted of the devout, the fanatics of the fanatical, the most dedicated guardians of honor and tradition RMA knew. Officially, they did not exist, as secret societies of any kind were banned according to the Red Book. Their non-existence was something Honor Corps was more than glad to encourage publicly, but among the Corps of Cadets the boys generally knew of their existence. Knew it, but couldn't prove it.

The battalion commander, a first-class rich prick called Adam Ryan St. Esprit, got up as the sophomore Honor Guards standing at the big, heavy chapel doors brought them smoothly closed. The heavy clunk of the doors locking shut echoed through the chapel.

Adam Ryan St. Esprit was a tall, lean, handsome boy, gifted with talent on the soccer field and an ability to charm, lead, and excel in the classroom. He was also a rich bastard who drove a goddamn Porsche when he was on break, and didn't mind bringing it up. He was also one of Mark Golan's best friends. St. Esprit drove him crazy, but he was a damn good cadet and a hell of a lot of fun to go on break with. Plus, he hated all the same shitbag cadets that Mark Golan did.

The druggies, the wannabe tough-guys and criminals, the unwilling and resentful, the overweight and the defiant. No matter how hard you worked to shape them up or ship them out, more kept coming in. Among them were that fat slob Travis Phelps, aptly nicknamed "Piggy" by more than a couple boys, and that son of a bitch Anthony DiNozzo. Mark Golan was a sharp boy, one who knew the names and faces of nearly every cadet in school. It took him only one minute to find those two in the crowd.

He wanted to put the stock of an M1903 into those pretty little faces. It would've been an improvement.

Travis Phelps was a pretty short story. He was overweight- his appearance was a walking rebuke to military discipline and mocked the school and the uniform. He was also weak inside- lacking the fire that gave Mark Golan the strength to not just survive in the barracks, but thrive in it. To go from being broken by Honor Corps himself to being the one helping to do the breaking. Travis Phelps was just too damn soft. The world would eat him alive.

Then there was Anthony DiNozzo.

At a prestigious military academy, who would the worst cadet have been? The sloppiest in dress, the latest to class, the least learned in the ways and traditions of the centuries-old profession of arms? By far, DiNozzo was the worst when he'd come here last fall. He was Mark Golan's most hated enemy. And his greatest failure.

"Ladies and gentlemen, fellow cadets, honored guests," Cadet Colonel Adam St. Esprit began, "Welcome to the commencement ceremonies of the Remington Military Academy Class of 1987."

God, Mark hated the prick. And loved him. He was a first-class jerk and a model cadet, a colossal asshole and a great friend. He had beaten Mark to the top by achieving three-diamond rank versus Mark's one, and had gained a rare and tremendous honor by becoming both Battalion Commander in the Corps of Cadets and Commandant of the Honor Corps. He had despised DiNozzo and Phelps from the beginning, and looked down on them in just about every way possible.

"That motherfucker's got no class," Golan could hear St. Esprit saying. "DiNozzo, what a fucking wop name. How much more Italian can you get? What's this kid's dad do, anyway? Run a pizza joint?"

Adam Ryan St. Esprit from Baltimore, Maryland was not a fan of Italians. He talked about it roughly five times a day.

He also hated DiNozzo for being a sarcastic, foul-mouthed, defiant little shitbag who, God alone knew how, had managed to make it onto the Color Guard. That was where Golan had no difficulty agreeing with him. None at all.

 **XX**

Golan made himself pay attention, tuning back in just in time. Adam was just kicking into high gear with his speech, getting to the best part. And being the eloquent speechmaker and talker that he was, his best was pretty damn good.

"In the span of sixty-six years, ladies and gentlemen, Remington Military Academy has made its mark many times over, as numerous graduates have gone on to take their place in the history pages." He paused, looking out over the sea of parents, staff, cadets and guests seated in the long pews in the chapel.

"Remington graduates have founded department stores. Coached baseball teams. Won all of the top four medals our nation presents for heroism on the battlefield. Our alumni include the founders of two sportswear companies, three four-star generals and twenty more flag officers. They receive the alumni newsletter, _The Cutlass_ , at bases and embassies from Washington, DC to South Korea, from California to West Germany- we are, in fact, known around the world as 'The Cradle of America's Leadership'. And one of the cornerstones of leadership, one of the things it cannot exist without, is honor.

Half-turning to look at Golan, St. Esprit said, "I now call on the Chairman of the Cadet Honor Council, Mark Golan, to tell you how we at Remington define honor."

The two boys exchanged a slight nod as they passed, one coming forward from his seat, the other returning to it.

Mark Golan paused for a moment before he began, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot tell you just how much I have changed, how much my view of honor has changed, since I came to Remington Military Academy. When I arrived here, I thought 'honor' was some obsolete relic, something only knights in shining armor had any use for. It wasn't something men lived by, would rather die than be without- it was a punchline to a joke.

"The Cadet Honor Code is a simple one. It states that: 'A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do'. It is a simple code, but it is a stern code. Honor, like trust, can be lost in an instant and take a lifetime to regain. And the fact is, you are either honorable or you are not! If you are honorable, it will be reflected in things you do every day. It will be seen by others, and will earn admiration from without as surely as it generates self-respect from within.

"Outside these walls, outside the grounds of this school, there is a belief that individualism and pursuing selfish wants and needs is the road to success, to living a good life. Leaders of men, men of honor, are seen as dinosaurs. But the fact is, we need such men now, more than ever before in our country's history. We need men who can be counted on to always tell the truth. Who will spurn the easy wrong for the harder right, every time, without hesitation. We need men of integrity, of honesty, men who live the entire rest of their lives by those three hallowed words: Truth, Valor, Duty!"

Mark Golan's eyes shone bright in the chapel, his voice quaking with emotion- with the fierceness of belief. What he was talking about now was hitting very close to home. These were not just words Mark Golan had written out, had worked tirelessly to memorize before commencement. They weren't just words from his head- this speech was a cry from Mark's heart.

 _Now_ , Mark thought, for _the very best of it. The finishing touch_. He had them spellbound now; the parents, the teachers, the cadets and even his fellow members of the Honor Council- and the Honor Corps, though more than one was a member of both. Golan's words affected him too, making it difficult to go on- to keep from breaking down in front of several hundred people. He composed himself, took a breath, and went on.

"Honor is not just merely refusing to lie, cheat or steal yourself- it is refusing to tolerate in your presence anyone that does. It is more than just doing the right thing. It is a rallying point for all that is good and holy in the world, all that will guide this country on the right path and keep it there for eternity. Honor is the one thing no graduate of Remington can be without, or will be without. It is the presence of God in men. And while we were not men the day we arrived here, members of the Class of 1987, make no mistake: men we have become."

Mark Golan cleared his throat, struggling again to compose himself as the Corps, the parents, the teachers, the guests, all exploded into tumultuous applause. He believed every word of it- every word- and had done his utmost to convey to the audience the unshakeable firmness of his belief. Mark believed in honor the way some men believed in God, and worshipped it as devoutly as humbly as he did when he prayed to the Lord every night. The Air Force Academy awaited in the fall, and after that a life of service in the US Air Force. For the rest of his life, Mark would be a man of honor, a man of iron- a man of Remington. He knew not all of the cadets out there in the crowd would really live up to the words he'd spoken, knew that some would do their damndest to forget how to spell "honor" the minute they got out of here.

But Mark had done all he could.

The Cadet Major, chairman of the Honor Council, did not acknowledge the applause, did not react to the cheers. He only stood there stoically, letting the waves of noise wash over him. When they began to die down, Mark turned away- but not before finding Cadet Corporal Anthony DiNozzo out there in the crowd, a disgruntled look on his face.

Somehow- somehow- Mark managed not to smile.

 **XX**

Thirty minutes later, with commencement over and the crowd spilling back outside, the taking of pictures, the signing of yearbooks, and the saying of goodbyes began. Mark Golan found himself shaking hands with a lot of boys, and some of the partings were hard. He'd made a lot of good friends here.

His best friends, of course, the best Mark Golan had ever had, were his fellow members in the Honor Corps. It didn't take long for the thirteen boys to find each other in the milling crowd, and as soon as they did, they were posing for photos with staff members, with each other, putting on faces or looking dramatic and serious.

Captain Raymond Cosworth, TAC Officer for H&S Company, the unit that housed the Corps of Cadets' battalion staff, made it a tradition to present a cigar to each cadet from his barracks who was graduating, and have a photo taken with them. After Mark and his favorite staff member posed together, each grinning with a cigar between his teeth, the boys of Honor Corps took a slight risk- a slight one- and posed for a photograph together.

"Come on, come on- hey, you, Carroll! Stop screwing around, man!" St. Esprit did his best to sound stern and commanding, but the Cadet Colonel was one car ride home away from being a civilian. They all were.

"Make me!" Carroll said, sticking his tongue out.

"You can't talk to the battalion commander like that!" Charlie J. Edwin III said in mock-horror, clapping his hands to his face.

"What's he gonna do, send me to military school?"

"You are hereby sentenced to four years at Virginia Military Institute-" St. Esprit began.

"Huh? I'm going there in the fall!" Carroll blurted out.

"-as a Cadet Private."

"Please no!" Carroll wailed.

"Please yes," St. Esprit replied calmly, the guys all cracking up around him. Finally, St. Esprit raised his voice for real. "Okay, guys, that's enough- we don't have all day, let's fall in for a photo shoot!"

The thirteen members of Honor Corps 1986-1987 quickly gathered to either side of their highest-ranking members, St. Esprit and Golan, and threw their arms around each other's shoulders. In their full dress grays, white pants and white-covered hats lined with the gold bands indicative of cadet officers, medals and ribbons decking out the whole left side of their chests, the boys looked like what they were: some of the highest-ranking, most distinguished members of their class.

Choosing to keep his cigar on hand for the photo, Adam Ryan St. Esprit grinned big, put the cigar in his mouth, and threw his arms around Mark Golan's and Charles Edwin's shoulders, as Captain Cosworth obligingly raised the camera for the shoot.

"Smile, boys," St. Esprit crowed, "we're about to retire!" It was a favourite line of his. And like everything about St. Esprit, it drove Mark up a wall and made him love the bastard- all at the same time.

"Army!" the boys called out, all at once, and Captain Cosworth snapped the photo.

 **XX**

Mark was in the middle of signing fellow Honor Corps member Ryan Vanderhorst' yearbook when that slob Travis Phelps passed by- and by himself, meaning Mark could take a shot at him, unimpeded by parents.

"Salute the Commandant!" Mark barked- a favourite command of more than one boy when Honor Corps was holding a sweat party in the gym, just for Phelps. It was a line he could call out safely here, where no one would know what it meant except the ones who already did. And yet it worked perfectly. Phelps flinched like he'd been hit with an electric shock.

The guys cracked up laughing, and Mark and Vanderhorst watched together, eyes tracking Phelps under the black brims of their hats as Phelps, or Piggy as they liked to call him, went on his way, scurrying off like some hunted thing, escaping from fearsome predators. And they were predators, and proud of it. You didn't fuck with the boys in Honor Corps.

"Bro, we would've needed a lot more than a year to make a man outta that fat fuck," Vanderhorst said in a low voice.

"Did the best we could," Golan replied reasonably.

"Life's gonna fuck him in the ass, isn't it?" Vanderhorst asked, sounding about as sorry for Piggy as it was possible for him to be.

"Oh, yeah," Mark said, returning to signing Vanderhorst' yearbook. "He's weak. He lacks discipline. He lacks commitment. Anybody that soft… well, small chance he's gonna-"

"Soft? Small?" a mocking voice asked, and Mark looked up and turned to his right, his handsome face immediately darkening as he caught sight of who it was.

"What're you guys talking about, Golan? Your dick?"

The guys closed in almost immediately, and Anthony DiNozzo just grinned big in response. "Careful, guys. Don't wanna reveal this in public, do you?"

"We're all friends," Charlie Edwin said flatly. "We all don't like you. That's all there is to see."

"Man, you guys actually _have_ friends?"

"Oh, that's funny," Golan said calmly. "I always thought you were a hoot. Didn't I, guys?"

"Damn right," St. Esprit agreed.

"He's fucking hilarious," Carroll added.

"Nobody funnier in the world than DiNozzo."

DiNozzo went on smiling. "If I'm so funny, how about I sign Vanderhorst's yearbook?" He actually reached for the yearbook, still open in Ryan Vanderhorst' hand, but the black-haired boy from South Carolina snapped it shut, a hard, unfriendly look on his face. "Not a chance."

"Oh, did I upset somebody?" DiNozzo asked, mock sorrow on his face. "Well, excuuu-"

"Fuck you," Vanderhorst spat, shoving DiNozzo hard in the chest. "Beat it."

"Oh, you really sure you wanna do that? Huh?" DiNozzo asked, stepping forward, anger in his eyes.

"Yeah, you bet I am," Vanderhorst answered.

"Where's your sense of humor, DiNozzo?" Golan asked, sinking the barb as deep as he could.

"It's here. Oh, it's here," DiNozzo laughed. "Hearing you talk about honor, Golan, has gotta be the funniest fucking thing I ever heard."

"That's because you got four pounds of provolone where most people got brains!" Vanderhorst half-shouted. "I'm so sick of your _mouth_ , DiNozzo! I'm from Charleston! You hear me? _Charleston_! My _butler_ wouldn't even be seen with someone like you!"

It was true, too. Ryan Thomas Moultrie Vanderhorst was from one of the oldest and wealthiest families living in Charleston, South Carolina. He was a direct descendant of South Carolina Revolutionary War hero William Moultrie, and while modest enough at school, he got tired of people like DiNozzo pretty fast, and had been aching to have him framed for something all year- just to get rid of him.

"Oooh, temper, temper," DiNozzo said, not bothered in the least. "Keep your voice down, Vanderhorst. It's very vulgar. Isn't that your favorite word? Granted, it's not like you have a big choice, with a vocabulary of ten words-"

"Fuck the deal," Matthew Park said suddenly. "We should take him behind the barracks and have some fun."

"Deal? What deal?" DiNozzo asked, confusion on his face for the first time since he'd come over.

In that instant Park's face went paler than it already was, and the rest of the Honor Corps boys avoided looking at each other, lest they give anything away. In his eagerness to get rid of DiNozzo and his interruption, Matt Park had made a grave tactical error, openly referring to the truce Coach Tanner had struck on DiNozzo's behalf a month or so ago. The deal had been a strictly-kept secret, like all business of the Honor Corps, and not even DiNozzo had been told about it.

"The deal," Golan repeated calmly, betraying how off-balance he felt. "It's real simple. Even _you_ should be able to understand it, _Tony_." He pointed at the long, curving circle of Military Drive, and down to the spot where it linked up with Adams Street. "Get the fuck out of my school. Don't come back."

"It isn't yours, your highness."

"Jesus," St. Esprit burst out, "don't you ever get serious, DiNozzo?"

"I sometimes do," DiNozzo allowed. "But only with people I take seriously."

"Watch your fucking mouth," Golan said, stepping closer. "You better watch your mouth or someone's gonna have to clean it for you, you fucking-"

"Mark, there you are!" Mark's grandmother, Regina Golan, quickly swept her beloved grandson into her arms, right there in front of his buddies. In front of DiNozzo. "Mark, honey, that speech you gave- it was beautiful! Beautiful!"

"Grandma," Mark protested weakly. "I'm with the guys!"

"Oh, hush, Marky," Regina said, hugging him against her plump form one more time. "I'm sure they understand." She released him, then added, "Don't forget, your family are waiting for our turn for some pictures, too. Five more minutes, okay? You'll have plenty more time, just come by for some pictures."

"Yes, Grandma," Mark said obediently, waiting to do much else until she'd walked away.

"Marky? Marky?" DiNozzo almost fell over laughing as soon as Regina Golan was out of earshot. "Oh, my God!"

"Shut up," Golan barked, surprised by the tone of command in his voice. "You- you are not funny! But you are an idiot, and you better start changing your life!"

"I like you, Golan," DiNozzo said. "I mean, what's not to like about a guy who hazes kids with his cute little club and then gives some dumb speech, this lofty load of shit about honor, in front of whole school? What's not to like about someone like that?"

"Are you calling me a liar?" Golan asked, cool and detached.

"I am calling you a goddamn liar," DiNozzo replied, equally cool, equally detached. "I am calling you out for being full of shit. You really think this little club, all you guys- you really think you know anything about honor?"

"Mr. DiNozzo," Golan said, fighting to hold onto his temper as a cold smile broke out onto his face. "Always in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing the wrong thing. You know what you are, DiNozzo old buddy? You're a sack of shit. You're a disgrace to this school. A disgrace to that uniform. I tried to help you, DiNozzo, and I fucking failed. I want you to remember that, wiseass. I want you to remember I tried to make you a man."

"I am a man," DiNozzo said. "More of a man than you." He smiled suddenly. "Aw, hell. He threw his arms around Golan and hugged him, safe in the knowledge that neither he nor any of the twelve other members of Honor Corps standing nearby could do anything in the presence of so many teachers and parents. "I'm gonna miss you, Golan old buddy. There's a lot of assholes in the world, but none of 'em are as tight as yours." He let go and started moving away.

Mark went for him then, and it took the combined efforts of Vanderhorst and St. Esprit to hold him back.

"Fucking wiseass," Mark spat, staring hatefully after the Italian-American.

"Man, we've wasted enough time on him," Vanderhorst said. "Hey, guys- who wants to sign my yearbook?"

When it was time for Golan to break off to go join his family, he made sure to shake hands with Ryan Vanderhorst, who would be leaving for Charleston in his father's white Cadillac before Golan could return to his friends.

"Hey, future VMI man- don't go winning any medals in the service, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah- no medals," Vanderhorst grinned. "I hear you, Golan."

"And be careful," Golan added, more seriously this time.

Vanderhorst nodded. "I will."

 **XX**

And he was careful. From the day he entered VMI in August 1987 to his graduation in 1991, Ryan Vanderhorst minded his words and actions. He became one of the most respected members of his class before they even broke out of the Ratline, and went on to become the regimental executive officer his first classman year. But twelve years after graduating from VMI, Major Ryan Vanderhorst was sent to Iraq, alongside many others in the 101st Airborne. And there came moments in his service there when he had to chose between being careful, and being brave. Ryan proved very good at both. But he lied about the medals- he won many, becoming one of the most highly-decorated RMA and VMI graduates of the Iraq War.

Mark Golan was there along with the other eleven members of Honor Corps 1987, and the Vanderhorst family, when Ryan Vanderhorst's medals were unveiled in the Hall of Valor at the Virginia Military Institute. And again, when they brought Ryan home, to Arlington National Cemetery.

Twelve members of Honor Corps, from various classes, would ultimately die in the two conflicts with Iraq. Four would die on 9/11, and nine in another faraway place unknown to most Americans in 1987- Afghanistan. In these conflicts, as they had done on behalf of their country in every war RMA graduates had fought in since 1941, members of the Honor Corps stood head and shoulders above the crowd as some of the school's most distinguished graduates. It was all for one thing, and one thing only. Flying high above the front steps of Remington Military Academy, red, white and blue, waving and snapping in the breeze, bidding hail and farewell to countless incoming cadets and departing graduates for 66 years and counting.

The flag.

 **XX**

Driving his own brand new black Chevrolet Caprice Classic out through the front gates, Mark Golan pulled over to the side of the road just before Remington Military Academy would disappear from his rearview mirror.

"You all right, Mark?" his father asked.

"Nothing," Mark said, clearing his throat and blinking, looking away so they wouldn't see his face. "It's nothing. Just got something in my eye."

Mark got the Caprice going again, and he had himself composed now. Under control. It would be a test of that if he dared look back at the mirror one more time.

But he did.

* * *

 **A/N: Certain parts of this story, especially the later sections of it, borrow pretty heavily from Pat Conroy's "The Lords of Discipline". This in no way an attempt to copy or take credit for that work- if anything, this is just paying homage to it. The line "Honor is the presence of God in man" is closely echoed here- it is said by the war hero General Bentley Durrell in Conroy's novel. I am not really trying to condone or condemn Honor Corps here. And as a former cadet, I can tell you that the existence of such organizations makes for good drama, but is pretty much never true in real life. But as I once wrote an essay for an English teacher of mine, talking about The Citadel and if anything like The Ten- secret society in Pat Conroy's book- actually existed there. I raised the question- if such a group did exist, was the school still worth it, still more good than bad? I say now what I said then. "Yes. Even so."**


End file.
